ellectrical | May 2007, Tough Little Girls

"Shit, come on, we've gotta get out of here –"

"Come on, I want to see –"

"Elle - Elle it's me –"

"Jesse, I want a turn –"

When she was twelve, Elle set her record for the most electricity she would ever produce on command at one time. The wattage recorded would power a more populous Manhattan block for approximately six hours.

It took 2000 volts to restart her heart after it. Elle doesn't remember this.

She does remember the last time her body was under enough duress to produce far more than that. After the incident in Ohio, the Company had understood that inducing that reaction was unlikely to lead to anything useful. Though its production value was incredible, it was impossible to harness.

And for Elle's body, it was like she had run a marathon. Several times.

There was an alarm then, like there is now, a low, steady hum that reverberates off the walls. There's a slight pressure on her left arm, and then, with a yelp, it's gone.

"Fuck, she's still live –"

Her eyes flutter open. The pyrokinetic is standing over her, still shaking his hand. It takes her a moment to realize her face feels damp – her nose must be bleeding, and fuck, her head –

"Crazy bitch -"

A burst of blue flame blossoms in the air above her, but it goes out as that man – Murphy, the one who had been yelling at her – pushes him away. They don't have time to talk before another voice calls – "Come on! We need to get out, now!"

The pyrokinetic is being pulled away. He doesn't fight it this time, and though Murphy looks back at her (it's too dark to see his face), he follows, too. Elle's eyes begin to adjust as they leave – the fluorescent lights have gone out; what's left comes from a stream of white sparks from one of the cells, an emergency light in the stairwell at the end of the hall, and a flickering blue glow that she only then realizes is coming from spurts of electricity still snapping over her skin.

"I wanted to have some fun –"

Not thinking, Elle presses her hands down on the floor – pain cuts through her palms and into her arms, and she gasps, but rolls on her side, into the wall. This time,careful not to use her hands, she shoves her body up against the wall, still breathing heavily, suddenly aware that she's trembling, her legs feel like cardboard, her throat is completely dry.

There are two figures left in the hall. She can only make out their silhouettes, but one is on the ground, unmoving. His shape incomplete, like large pieces of him have been ripped away, but Elle doesn't smile. She doesn't have the strength to be satisfied that she kept her word. The other is standing, and she can make out the edges of his horn-rimmed glasses. It means that she knows that he doesn't once look over to her, as he takes a fistful of what's left of Sylar's coat and drags the broken man aside, toward his emptied cell.

Her shaking grows worse, but Elle shoves herself again against the wall, using it to balance as her legs won't stay straight. It's enough to allow her to stand, and then, slowly, take one step. And then force her other leg forward.

It doesn't take that long to reach the end of the hall, and the door to the stairwell. She's not even entirely sure what she'll do when she gets there, but the movement, the feeling that she should have collapsed by now, the cold cement under her bare feet and bloodied footprints, the ache in her forehead and cool air slicing into her hands, the alarm and the flickering light – by her third step, she's lost track of where this is, when, into a blurred, dreamlike understanding that this is what she has to do. No one is going to help her.

You'd be surprised what a daughter would do for her father.

With what little force she has, Elle presses her right shoulder into the stairwell door, and shoves it open.